


Contrition.

by pissyellowcrocs



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Librarians, Other, The Librarians - Freeform, cassandra is soft, eve should stop yelling! yell at flynn., ezekiel is. ezekiel, he's probably done some bad shit over the years let's not lie, hmmmm how to tag, jake will be in here. soon. i love him., jenkins being depressed.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissyellowcrocs/pseuds/pissyellowcrocs
Summary: Jenkins watches the team's birth, and he thinks he might be watching the team's dispersal. After Flynn left, Jenkins took it upon himself to be the pillar of stability, the unaffected formerly immortal caretaker of the annex. He told himself that he shouldn't get attached. Everyone leaves someday. Everyday is filled with work. Everyday has to be, to preoccupy him from thinking about all his regrets and misdeeds over the past thousand years. He pretends to be fine, he always does, but Jenkins is not alright. Not in the slightest.





	1. Transience.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope to make this into a series? I figure the first chapter is a little slow, but this is my first actual story on this site! So, I hope you enjoy! I take requests, so! Just ask! Thank you! - Fish

**Mortality was horrible.**

 

Head aches as if it had a pulse of its own, even after he’d taken two _Advil_ , and he can barely feel the medicine kicking in. It certainly didn’t help that from what he heard, the four were having a _particularly_ bad day.

 

“Welcome back, Colonel, Librarians,” a strained baritone voice groans, as the team he had become so familiar with trampled through the backdoor, he not pausing to look up from the object of his current interest; that being, a hot cup of Earl Grey. When the ruckus, strong scent of smoke and burnt skin prompted him to lift his gaze, Jenkins was welcomed with three bruised, and soot covered Librarians, accompanied by one, agitated, yet clean Guardian. His tea is spilled at the sudden, agitated yell Baird expels, and hands fidget with his bowtie for a moment, before placing an knuckle upon his lips. Eve is silent once again, though one could sense the anger nearly oozing from her. Eyes are wide with surprise, and expression holds a tinge of concern as he observes the four, before staring the Guardian in the eyes, giving a small tilt of his head, a squint, and pointing his index at the three.

Wanting an explanation, all he received was a glare; an unwarranted one, he thought. He’s tempted to say something, but he holds his tongue, thinking it best to let things pass. One of her hands placed upon her hips moves to point and shakes violently at the three exhausted Librarians, something about how they should have, researched the German Fire Imps in more detail, and how they would have been kicked out of the army if they, ‘pulled that bullcrap again’. They didn’t seem to be very interested in listening to her, more focused on regulating their own staggered breathing.

On that note, Jenkins suddenly came to the decision that he didn’t need to know what happened right at that moment. He had time to figure it out later. Besides, he was far too fatigued (a strange feeling, one he hadn’t felt in many centuries) to even observe such a petty squabble. Eve had been a lot more tense and aggressive ever since Flynn took his  _abruptive leave_ from the Library, as had the other Librarians. Although things were better than when he first left, the atmosphere was still less jubilant, and had a feeling of foreboding. Jenkins could confidently say that he liked it better when Flynn was around. Everyone missed him, even if they didn't talk about it much anymore.

But did  _he_ miss Flynn?

Of course, though he was so used to people coming in and out of his life that it hadn’t affected him much. At least, that’s what he told himself. In his youth, he had made the mistake of getting attached to librarians, guardians, and normal folk, and caring about them only made their eventual passing hurt only more. Charlene was a particularly painful reminder of that. But that’s all Charlene was now; a reminder.

Mirror or no mirror, sometimes he still forgets she’s, really gone.

 

As cliche as it was, the caretaker really shouldn’t have gotten attached. Deep down, however, he is still human, and is still bound to make mistakes. If people were meant to learn from mistakes, why doesn’t he? He loved, and loved and  _lost_ even more. Currently, he loved his librarians, and he had half a mind to berate himself for doing so, although now that he was  _mortal_ , perhaps it would be alright this time. Though, now that he was mortal, he could die; and right now, dying didn't seem such a bad thing right now. And yet, even as a Knight of the Round Table, Jenkins- Galahad, has done many things that he wasn't, and still isn't proud of. No matter how mortal he might be, he doesn't deserve to love someone, or anyone again, and he certainly doesn't deserve to die, no matter how internally he yearns for it.

After seeing that everyone was alright, he shakes his head, spinning on his heel, leaving the berating Guardian to her lecture. The knight returns to the confines of his lab, and considers what tea he wants to enjoy with a good book. Old, yet nimble fingers adjust his silk bow tie, as he makes his way into a leather arm chair, a pair of circular reading glasses sitting upon the bridge of his nose. Leather bound book crackles as it opens, and eyes flicker over words; but that’s all he saw. No story, no mental picture, just an assortment of letters that he couldn’t keep track of. Perhaps it was the fact that he was mortal, and age was catching up with him, his memory fleeting? How many times has he read this page already?

Absorbed in his own thoughts, he barely heard the gentle knocking upon the door.

‘ _Cassandra_.’, he’d predict; her knocks were meek, soft; and he would be correct, as the disheveled redhead stumbles in, dragging Ezekiel as well.

They both had prominent, almost luminescent red warts upon their faces; Cassandra’s on her cheek, and Ezekiel’s on his nose. The telepath’s brows furrowed, still too tired to speak. The two’s hair was singed at the end, and Cassandra still had dimming embers upon her dress. He thinks Cassandra made an attempt to greet him, but it came out as a dry cough; the poor girl. He’s tempted to ask Ezekiel where his shirt went, but some questions are meant to go unanswered.

“Th’ imps. They squirted us with their nasty gunky. . . stuff, and it was fine for a while, but when we just sat down after Eve stormed off, these popped up. We figured you must’ve got somethin’ for magical warts, I mean I figure you’re old enough to have seen everything by now.” Ezekiel had taken the initiative to speak first, though his voice was tired, even if he did try to add a bit of humor to his tone.

Jenkins adjusted his glasses, and leaned in closer, giving a puzzled hum. Thoughts are pushed aside by his interests, and he feels calm again; like he did when Flynn was around, and it feels _good_.

“Strange- this protuberance in the skin is usually caused by the touch of an ifrit, or, in simpler terms, a jeanie. Similar to fire imps, but nastier, larger things. More chaotic than mischievous, they’re like the lawyers of magical creatures. If you had a simple run in with imps, then I’d expect burnt clothing and some lacerations, but not glowing warts.”

Ezekiel tapped his foot upon the ground, arms crossed.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all spooky and interesting, but can you fix it? I can’t really be the world’s greatest thief with a giant fleshy glowing target on my face. It’s not good for business. Besides, it’s really sore, and I’m really hot- not in the good way, either.”

The caretaker rises with a sigh, shaking his head, a hand waving them off.

  
“I’ll see if I can make something by tonight; if it grows or does anything besides cause the either of you discomfort, be sure to come see me as quickly as possible.”

And with that, he was alone again; with peace and quiet for a most of two hours, albeit two hours he’d spend working. Now he has no one to speak to, he feels significantly worse, but at least it lets him take his mind off of things for a while. Two hours seems like such a short amount of time now, but it made him think about how each hour is to be treasured; being immortal lacked the issue of not spending time wisely. For now, he’ll focus on the task at hand.

Work kept the mind from straying to places it shouldn’t, from places he couldn't let it.


	2. Reminiscence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenkins pretending to be busy in the Annex is his talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope the next chapter comes sometime next week? Comments very much appreciated?

Dozens of glittering stars dust a deep blue sky in Portland, Oregon, a chilly winter’s night setting in. The Librarians, and one Guardian had all returned to their respective homes, resting after a dull day of filing and cataloging artifacts. The tension from the previous weeks still lingered in the air, stale and neigh unbearable. No matter the current state in the Library, there was always work to be done, and so a single, dim light illuminates Jenkins' project at hand; something about trying to extract magic from newer artifacts. Reaching for a vial on an upper shelf in his lab, the caretaker pauses, catching sight of his hand, so old and fragile looking. He’d always taken pride in his appearance- his impeccable suits and coordinated bow-ties- if he couldn’t prevent the eventual aging of his flesh, he could at least make sure his clothing was proper and reflected who he was. Turning mortal; it didn’t make him look any older, and it didn’t make him feel older either; it just made him a lot more pensive. 

He doubts the others took notice, and that’s for the best. They have other things to worry about without his dilemma over how his skin didn’t look as taught and spotless as it used to.

Grey eyes flicker over faint and fading nicks and scars that littered his calloused fingers with a soft gaze; he remembers how he got all of them- from woodworking, from the animals in the Library, and of course, last but not least, 1534’s hunting accident. (He wished he could forget that one.) There’s a silent chuckle that leaves his lips, a thumb stroking the faint, though large laceration that sat upon the side of his hand. He had half a mind to wear gloves, but they were always so uncomfortable. 

Hands are put down, as is the vial, and he gives the clock on the wall a short glance, before giving a strained yawn. He doubted he’d ever be used to having to sleep. Sure, as an immortal, did it less out of necessity and more out of habit, but even then, he slept very rarely. Thumbs rub at his eyes, and though stubborn, he makes the decision to not work with magic in this sleep deprived state. Adamantly refusing to consent to his body’s plea to rest, he walks into the main chamber of the annex-  _ his  _ annex, which was currently dark, and quite empty. Flicking the auxiliary lights on, the annex suddenly seems colder, and less welcoming than it usually was.  He’d gotten so used to the four messing around in here, now that he thought about it, it seemed absolutely strange with them gone. 

His footsteps stutter as he walks towards his desk, the prominent lack of activity slightly alarming. And so he sits upon the chair, and looks over at the strewn, still papers, the immense disorganization, and of course, Ezekiel’s leftover pizza slice on what Jake referred to as a, ‘particularly interesting tome’, (even if Jenkins did try to convince him that half the things in that ancient history book consisted of fables and vastly exaggerated events that he actually took part in). A pen is held in his hand, and he clicks it, fidgeting very quietly. A long sigh is given, and a cough follows, chin moving to rest upon his hands.

 

Wasn’t it funny, that he’s lived so long, and made such little of a difference?

 

He will die, sooner or later; immortal or not, nothing lives forever. Nothing is forever. But with how long he’s living, he had hoped he could have made some sort of a difference. And yet, it seemed like everything progressed in the opposite of how he wanted it to. He couldn’t stop the fall of Camelot, he couldn’t stop magic from being released into the world, and he couldn’t stop Flynn from leaving. He was just an old man, after all. A withered, and lonely old man who’s only a shell of who he was before. Part of him thinks he should have listened to everyone; about how a bastard, like him, couldn’t make a difference. A slightly trembling hand runs over where Lancelot had struck him with his own blade shortly after being knighted, and flinches on instinct at the thought.

At least, he thinks, he didn’t turn out like his parents.

 

He likes to think he didn't, at least. (God, he hopes he didn't.)

 

And with that thought, the Grail Knight is asleep, snoring softly, tremors making delicate ripples in quickly cooling tea.


End file.
